Inevitabilities and the Zealous Bodies
by kamoned
Summary: Good things never last. They knew that. They understood that. They lived by that. It felt as if every force in the universe was working against them – and, sadly, the universe tends to get what it wants.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **Characters and world belong to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N: **Along with _Of France and Other Things_, I'm going to be doing something I'm much more comfortable with – a third person POV fic! No, seriously. This is mostly focused on seventh year, with plenty of flashbacks. Hope you can keep up as you learn how fatalistic I really am.

**Summary: **Good things never last. They knew that. They understood that. They lived by that. It felt as if every force in the universe was working against them – and, sadly, the universe tends to get what it wants.

* * *

**Inevitabilities and the Zealous Bodies**

_**(And How Inevitabilities Always Win)**_

* * *

**Prologue**

A Fight That Demands To Be Fought

* * *

_Help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes_

_Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight_

-Sia. "Chandelier."

* * *

Life was cruel.

No one possessed the stout courage to say what they knew was already true: life was cruel. Life was ruthless. Life was merciless. Life was pitiless. Life didn't stop until it got what it wanted. Life didn't leave any survivors because life was meant to end. Life was filled with truths that no one was willing to face.

Death was inevitable.

One day it would happen – it would creep on the most unsuspecting of victims (even those who had just dropped their only defense on the sofa) and draw them in. Death refused to wait for anyone (even lonely boys who needed the protection that had just fell behind the veil). Death didn't let anyone go when it really wanted them.

All good things will meet their end.

(Regardless of that fact that you were already at your low.) Most tried to escape this fact and make things last as long as possible – but life didn't like good things. Life liked giving bad things to good people. Life loved it when bad won out good (that's why it left an orphan with neglecting guardians).

Happy endings aren't real.

Things won't be alright until the end. It will never happen. Because, as life has already proved, bad won out good (always – that's why a man was left to rot in prison for a crime he didn't commit). Happy endings will never happen in real life because good is too weak to win. Power can win, though.

Life liked to give people the cold hard facts. We call them inevitabilities. We can run as fast as we can, but, as it turns out, inevitabilities love a chase. They'll always win – with their agile and unassuming lithe bodies.

We can try to survive, but no one is ever truly alive after an inevitability decided to ram into them with all its force, laughing maniacally as we crumple to the hard ground in pain.

We try to compensate for our lack of competence. We try to make up reasons for these things. But life and death and inevitabilities always win.

Why? Because they have the universe on their side. And the universe has a tendency to win.

A fight awaits them at the end of their tunnel of brightness, a fight that will be fought in the dark, because nothing good ever comes out of a fight. They can pretend to be happy, pretend that this was what they had wanted out of life – but it wouldn't be true.

Horribly short lives were chased down by inevitabilities they didn't have the courage to face. They were supposed to be of scarlet and gold – honored as they commanded the respect of everyone except the cunning geniuses hiding in green and silver.

As they ran and ran, bones fell across their feet, and blood flooded their field of view. They each knew they were going to die. They were trapped – locked into their lives that were destined to be unfortunate.

The first to come to terms with his fate was the first to die, the first to turn around and tell death to take him and let the others go. He was fearless. He ran straight into danger, every time. That was just the price of being a hero – or rather, a martyr.

He was the bravest – he was the protector of his inferiors, the tormentor of his equals. He was a bastard with a dirty past caked in the humiliation of his rivals. He knew he was a bastard. He loved attention and he loved being the _center_ of attention – but there's more to a person than to how they seem. He just wanted to be the protector, the hero of everyone else's story.

His own hero – well, who do you think he was attempting to save?

The next to face the inevitable was as brave as her precedent. She was given mercy from the powerful and she stayed to save the one boy worth saving. She wasn't perfect. She was vindictive and unforgiving – unless you gave her a reason you believe you were a person worth her forgiveness. She judged too quickly and was unaware of what she needed.

The moment she died was a moment of rare clarity. She owed her life it to the boy in the crib, who was marked with a task he wasn't fit to deal with (he dealt with it anyway). She needed to get him out alive.

The remaining three continued to run, scarred.

One of them cowered in the face of power. He hadn't the marvelous strength and he sent the other two to their deaths. He defected because he wasn't brave (but he was smarter).

One of them tried to kill the other. He was too rash. He was too impulsive. He, of course, had felt murderous tendencies before. Inadvertently, he had killed the other two, as well. He was punished for his actions severely, as the traitor had snuck away. He was thrown into a cage, trapped once again, but this time by his own despair.

The last kept on running, completely alone. Life still wasn't finished with him. Life pushed him around and threw him in the dirt at every open opportunity. He wasn't given a break. He was strong and he was brave in a way that different from the others. He faced pain at the high of the tides, but he continued to go on in life, without a soul to confide in.

Grief, as luck would have it, was a terrible thing. It ate him alive, changing him into a bitter man who had the intellect to hide it well. He hated everything – everyone. Why hadn't they trusted him? Why did the other defect? Why was this happening to him?

He thought them all fools, stupid enough to get themselves betrayed and leave him in such a state.

Years later, he distanced himself from the boy who needed protection and love from a living person, though he loved the poor boy with everything he had left, from afar. Years later, he held the real traitor at the end of a wand. Years later, he would be reunited with one of his old friends, but it would a friendship made out of guilt. It wasn't real. Not anymore.

They ran together again, trying to be happy (but failing).

He would have to hold the boy to be protected as he watched the last of his past fall through a veil. He would be devastated, and a bit bitter than his friend would be back with them all, as he continued to live like _this_.

Years later, he would be killed, though his life had begun to pick up and though there was a boy with multi-colored hair that needed him, and therefore, couldn't have him.

Because good things never last. Life and its cruelness taught them that. They knew that. They understood that. They lived by that. They tried to make things last longer, but they couldn't stop it. They could run, but they would be caught. There was a war on, and they wouldn't survive. They knew that. They understood that. They lived by that. They couldn't make their lives last longer. It was inevitable. They were being chased relentlessly by the inevitabilities of life. It felt as if every force in the universe was working against them. Because they were – life and death and inevitabilities worked with universe. And the universe tends to get what it wants.


	2. Stolen By Dragons

**Disclaimer:** Characters and world belong to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Stolen By Dragons

* * *

_I think I found out that I have nothing,_

_That I have nothing in this place for me_

-The Neighbourhood. "Female Robbery."

* * *

To the ineligible, a pile of rubble, protected by signs cautioning the stupid, rested. Though it was hard to believe, this inconspicuous pile of rubble was a school, a castle, even. To the enrolled, the pile of rubble was a second home – or a first, to a bat-like fellow. It was a place they had made their most memorable memories, or the one's they could remember, at least. Once, an intelligently idiotic boy, with more power than he knew what to do with, hid a part of himself in a room of hidden things. Far in the future, there would be a battle that would make the pile of rubble and actual pile of rubble, only a year after an aging man fell off the highest tower. There was time when the once-blinded-now-wise headmaster had received a letter from a desperate little girl, who had begged him for the ability to come. She was ineligible, and there was nothing he could do. The pile of rubble had been forever labeled a place for nutters, in her eyes (she'd be envious, anyway).

But this was not about _that_ story. A different story, with the same little girl, yes, expect much more contemptuous and much older. But she's not important – not entirely, anyway. This story is a love story about gains and losses and everlasting things that didn't last. This story does, in fact, start at this pile of rubble, however.

It was an August afternoon, and letters were supposed to be sent to the students, informing them of their new books and, for some, positions. But there was a bit of a delay at the pile of rubble, more commonly known as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Students may not have been there, but the teachers were. They always were. At the current moment in time, a certain stiff teacher decorated in old-fashioned emerald green robes, despite her affiliation. Her hair was in its perpetual tight bun and her lips were pursed in an expression that looked familiar on her.

She was scurrying up to the seventh floor of the castle, regardless of her old age. Her brisk steps paused as she arrived at the griffin gargoyle that marked the headmaster's office. As the deputy headmistress, she felt she had a sort of obligation to ask him what was taking him so long. The letters would have to be sent out soon. The only thing that hadn't been chosen yet was the Head Boy. She didn't think the choice would be too hard, if she was being honest.

There was the aforementioned bat-like fellow, though he might've been travelling down the wrong path, if you asked her. There was a shaggy haired boy (dubbed the swottiest of the swots in the most profound of Hogwarts cliques), who was responsible and very worthy of the position. She, personally, really wanted the boy of her own house to win the title, but his monthly predicament would get in the way too much. The last candidate was far too nice, but also a very charismatic boy, who would undoubtedly gain respect very quickly. So what was taking so long?

She told the gargoyle the password that was named after a wizarding sweet and knocked on the door. She was granted entrance quickly. Moving to stand in front of the headmaster, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot expectantly.

The extremely old man – his long gray beard was evidence enough – in deep purple robes looked up at her through his half-moon shaped glasses with twinkling blue eyes. "Minerva. What do I owe the pleasure?"

Minerva McGonagall remained as stern as she always was. "It's taking far too long for you to pick a Head Boy, Albus," she said impatiently. He just chuckled, though she didn't see anything funny.

"I've decided on one, but I'm not sure you will approve," said a serene Albus Dumbledore.

McGonagall waited patiently for all of two seconds (which was quite a feat). "Well? Who is it, then?"

Dumbledore chuckled again, but at her warning look, he pressed on. "Mr. Potter seems to be a perfect match."

It was a rare occasion during which one would see Minerva McGonagall gaping like a fish. And, this was one of those rare occasions. "You can't be considering such a thing. The boy – he's a miscreant! Has six years of his constant presence taught you nothing, Albus?"

"I have always strived to see the best in people," he said. "You'd be lying, Minerva, if you said you haven't noticed the subtle changes in his temperament."

"What are you saying?" she asked warily.

"I think Mr. Potter has matured quite a bit in his years at Hogwarts. You don't deny it, I suspect?"

"No," Minerva admitted reluctantly. "But, are you sure, Albus? He might abuse the position."

"I'm aware."

"You've put too much faith into him."

"Do you remember two years ago, Minerva?" McGonagall did remember that night, the night of so many traumas for the boy and his friends. She nodded.

"It may not be clear all the time," Dumbledore continued, "but Mr. Potter's heart is in the right place. He's a natural born leader, as you know from his success at captaining the Quidditch team. He has the potential to be an admirable Head Boy."

"I suppose," McGonagall grumbled reluctantly. "But are you – do you think he'll work well with the Head Girl?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "Last year was proof enough of that fact."

McGonagall didn't have anything else to argue Potter's appropriateness for the position of Head Boy with. "So – so why haven't you sent out the letters, if you were already this sure?"

Dumbledore stared at her before looking down sadly at his wrinkly hands. "I'm sure you've heard of the most recent events in the young Potter's life. Most have."

McGonagall had.

* * *

James Potter couldn't have known he was the subject of their conversation as he stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom in robes of the darkest black.

In preparation for one of the worst days of his life – this one was right up there with the whole reason for the horrid day in the first place – he tried to fix his hair. He knew his eyes were suspiciously wet, but didn't he have a right to be sad? So much had happened, so much had gone wrong.

His hazel eyes were adorned with heavy dark bags and his cheeks were sunken in with voluntary malnourishment. He had stuck dark-tinted glasses over his face to make sure no one saw the way his eyes were reddened. His dark hair, as always, was in a state of impermeable disarray. At least, he thought bitterly, one thing was still the same. But even that failed to be too comforting, as his father's hair had been the same way. Hence, the reason he was attempting to make his hair less ridiculous. It would be respectful, and it would make his mother hurt less.

James found he had never hated anything as much as seeing his mother cry. She didn't cry daintily, like she did everything else. She heaved and screamed and wept and sniveled. Her face, scrunched up in an expression of unadulterated anguish, gleamed with tears as they travelled in packs down it. He never wanted to see her cry ever again, but he did. Every day since.

How was he doing? He didn't know. He felt as if he'd been robbed – stripped of his things, even though he needed them. And now, he was left to cope with something that wasn't his own fault. He tried to stay strong for his mother, but at night he sobbed in a way he had never sobbed before. There was nothing anyone could do, though. No one could do anything.

"Prongs?" the familiar voice of his best friend said. The unfairly handsome boy walked into James' bedroom, which was as messy as it usually was, however much things had changed. His face was sad – it was as if he had lost a father, too. Except he hadn't, James had.

"Yeah?" James asked in a dull voice, though he hadn't expected it to be. That was something that had changed. He wasn't as loud anymore. He didn't smile anymore, much less crack a joke.

"The funeral starts in an hour," said Sirius, still sporting that sad, yet pitying smile that forced James to have to repress the urge to punch his best friend in the face. The funeral was being held in the garden, in the back of the Manor, at his mother's insistence. They had taken to giving her everything she wanted, ever since Charlus Potter's death.

"And," Sirius pressed on, "June's here." June. James had forgotten about her. June Powers was nice. She was also his girlfriend, but that felt irrelevant at the time. Why was she at the funeral? To support him? That was kind of her, James thought.

"Really?" he asked. Sirius nodded. "Well, I'll be down in a few," he said vaguely. Sirius nodded mutely again and left. James decided to just leave his hair, despite it's painful but subtle reminder of what he lost only a week ago.

He left the room, and was surprised to find his girlfriend waiting just outside the door. June was dressed accordingly in a short black dress. Why everything had to be black at a funeral, James wondered, but he didn't have time to come up with a reason, because June stepped forward. She placed her hands on his cheeks and gave him a chaste kiss. To James' great vexation, she had a pitying and shrewd frown on her face.

"How are you?" she asked, and James privately remarked on the feelings of annoyance that the question had inflicted in him. How many times had someone asked him that in the last week?

James fiddled with her brown hair to occupy his hands. "Fine," he said, though he wasn't. June seemed to know that, but she just held his hand and squeezed it tightly.

"I know that's irritating. But it'll get better. I promise. You'll feel like shite for a long time, but that's normal," June said as they started to walk outside. James remembered that her own father had been killed by Death Eaters the year before and felt like a prick for not realizing before.

"I know." He kissed her again. "Thank you. I needed that."

"I'm here for you," she said, like everyone else, but somehow it meant more from her. Maybe that was because she had already dealt with something like this.

When they were in the garden, James' eyes immediately focused on the casket that held his father's body. He felt his knees falter a bit but June kept him steady.

"It's alright. You're alright. C'mon, let's go over to your friends. You need them right now," she said and led him to a group of people that James recognized. There was Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, and – to his shock and considerable aggravation – Lily Evans.

Their fight of the previous school year was still too fresh for him to look at her without feeling hurt. They had both said things that were undeniably true but also extremely harsh. Why was she here? To rub salt in the wound, no doubt.

James decided on ignoring her, though she was trying, rather desperately, to catch his eye. He sidled up to Sirius, pulling June along behind him, and nudged his friend, who indulged him with a small sympathetic smile.

"How've you been, James?" Remus asked him. James felt his self-control waning.

"Fine." He managed, but only just, not to snap at his best friend. Remus only meant well, after all.

Marlene reached forward to squeeze one of his hands. James suddenly remembered that Marlene's younger sister, Joy, had been kidnapped and killed the year before by Death Eaters. He inwardly cursed the war for taking so many people from them. But his father hadn't been a victim of the war. His father had died from dragon pox – of all things, in these dark times.

"Sirius?" James hated himself for sounding so pathetic. "Where's my – mum?" His voice cracked when his first instinct was to say "parents."

Sirius pointed in the direction of the casket, where James' mother, in fact, was standing. James forced a small smile in thanks – purposely not looking at Lily (and reprimanding himself for being so childish) – and walked over to his mum, who needed him more than anything right now.

He rested a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Mum," he said quietly. She did not look away from the casket, but he could hear her sniffles. James did not say anything more and just stood behind her for comfort. His mother did not move.

* * *

Lily Evans was the kind of girl that was all smiles. She could express any emotion with a smile. It came in handy often when she did not feel much like talking, or felt too awkward to. Lily Evans was always seen with some sort of smile on her face. They lit up her face and told all her secrets, with only a flash of white teeth. She was prettiest with a smile, people would say.

She had rarely smiled that summer.

Everyone would wonder why the beautiful Lily Evans lacked the ability to crack a grin over the latest holiday. Most would know the gist, but only a select few knew the true facts. And only one person knew of her inner turmoil.

"_I won't change for you, Evans! Terribly sorry I don't live up to your expectations!"_

He was such an arsehole, yet she wanted to be close to him and be his friend like they had been the year previous. They had both said some harsh things that no one would ever want to learn about themselves. But, why did it hurt so much? They hadn't been friends for terribly long, only last year and sort-of acquaintances the year before that – so why did it pain her so?

She could tell you why, but that would mean admitting it to herself, and she wasn't ready for that yet. She missed him, she told herself. A half-truth. She did, she did so much. Though, she didn't miss his personality as much as she missed _him_. The feeling of him.

Lily shook those thoughts from her head. They would do her no good – especially not today. Not today, because she was dressed in her late mother's black dress – you're only supposed to wear black to the kind of event she was going to. She was going to see him again today, in horrible circumstances.

She was going to his father's funeral and be there for support, and prove to him that she wasn't a bad person. She wasn't – really.

"_I've never met a person as selfish as you!"_

"_That's _rich_ coming from you, Potter!"_

Lily checked over her appearance yet again, before yelling her goodbye to her father and Apparating as close as possible to Potter Manor. She had only been there once before, for Boxing Day, but that was when they were actually on good terms. Now they weren't and she wondered if she should still go, for the umpteenth time that day.

She walked, twiddling her thumbs so she would have something to go with her hands. She felt unbearably awkward and she knew she would be out of place there. But she needed to be there for him. Even if the reasons were selfish (but she didn't know that yet).

There standing in a circle were, understandably, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Marlene McKinnon, and Dorcas Meadowes. It was too late to back out now.

She raised a hesitant hand up in greeted and they smiled at her, though confusedly. Before last year, Lily hadn't been too great friends with Marlene or Dorcas. Or Peter, for that matter. She and Remus had been on considerably good terms, but last year still changed everything. All these people had crawled into her life, and now she relied on them. She couldn't really tell if it was a good or bad thing.

"Hello," Lily said quietly upon arrival. They all nodded at her in greeting, but no other words were exchanged. It was not long before Sirius came back, with whispered words of James' upcoming arrival (and a poorly veiled glare in Lily's direction), but that was it. Lily silently remarked on the fitting weather of the day – no sun, though it was August, and dark grey clouds, which looked ready to burst at any moment.

Her attention was distracted from the sky when James did actually come back. With June. Surprisingly, she had not thought ahead to this development, and had to stifle a grimace. She really didn't like June.

Deciding to ignore the girl, Lily focused on catching James' eye. He was wearing unnecessary sunglasses and, having outlived her mother, she understood what they were for. He did not look at her, nor did he address her and it made something tug painfully in her chest. She felt out-of-place as she watched his _real_ friends comfort him before he left to be with his mother. And she wanted to help him – to reach out to him – but she didn't have the courage.

So, she just stood there, with an almost undetectable self-depreciating smile resting on her lips.

* * *

Silence was not a blessing, in this occasion. It was awkward and tangible and made the sitting room unbearable. Lily was staring at James, and James was staring at her, trying to figure out why she was really there.

He raised an eyebrow at her when her gaze didn't shift are a few minutes. She cocked her head towards the door, wordlessly telling him that she wanted to talk to him. Against his better judgment, he did as he was told, feeling no small amount of wary.

Lily ignored the brown eyes of June sticking to her as she followed him.

"Why are you here?" he asked instantly once they were in the hallway.

"I – uh, I know how it feels to lose a parent," she said. "I know you need your friends right now."

"We're not friends," he reminded her sharply. Thoughts of the school year previous plagued her mind as she grimaced.

"We were."

He did not reply, instead opting to stare calculatingly at her. She shifted under his scrutiny and looked at her perfect blue nails. It shouldn't have been so awkward, but it was. With everything that had occurred between them, she shouldn't have expected anything else.

"Things aren't the same as they were," he said finally. "Too much has been said. We're – we're broken beyond repair. I don't think we've ever been good for each other, really.

"But, now, after all that's happened – Lily Evans, you have a lot of nerve." He chuckled and she was horrified at the mirthless quality of it. "I used to admire that in you. Now, I think you have too much nerve, because you being here – I've never seen anything like it." His tone was as cold as ice but she did not flinch.

"My father's dead, yes. But that shouldn't change anything. Last year, you told me you hated me – despised me. What changed?" He laughed again. "Death?"

"James," she started but he was not listening.

"Why are you really here, Lily? Please enlighten me."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay. Really."

He chuckled. "Some people never change; d'you know that, Evans?" He watched her, a smirk at his lips, a smirk she had seen many times, just not directed at her often. It was a cruel smile that said, "I'm better than you. I'm smarter than you. You – you're _nothing_."

And, quite suddenly, she was furious with him and the same smirk was reflected on her own lips. "I do know that, actually, _Potter_," she said, and she spat the name with loathing. "You're proof enough. You're playing the victim, and it's _pathetic_. 'Boo hoo, my life isn't perfect anymore.' Congratulations, _Potter_, welcome to the real world. Isn't it just _peachy_?" She gave him an onceover with unforgiving eyes. "Pathetic, you are, to act as if you did nothing last year. A rivalry takes two people, if you didn't already realize."

His smirk grew wider. "Ah. There she is. Bitchy Lily Evans has come out to play." Half-lidded hazel eyes looked at her with superiority as he raised an aristocratic eyebrow. "Why are you silent now? You should be hexing me. Where's your ugly side gone, Evans?"

"Shut up."

"No. You're not the only one who's allowed to get angry. You're not the only one with feelings on the planet."

"Shut up!"

"Whatever." He retrieved a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it with his wand. She noticed he did not look at her as he blew out smoke indifferently. "Isn't this your cue to storm off, or something?"

* * *

He didn't know what he needed, nor did he know what he wanted. Right now, all that mattered to him were the physical aspects of his relationship with June. Drunken sex, he was sure, was the single best thing he'd ever experienced.

Firewhiskey, cigarettes, and sex. A lot of sex.

And June was giving him everything he wanted.

Not that June Powers was a slag, because she wasn't. She just knew what boys wanted – and, most of the time, it was sex. Every night, the door to James' room was charmed to be imperturbable and they drank till they could barely see straight. It was what he felt like he needed at the time.

But, on this day, June was putting a stop to the fiasco that was her boyfriend. Firewhiskey, cigarettes, and sex equaled chaos and their relationship would be doomed towards the same if it didn't stop. A chaotic train of too much taking and no giving.

"You've used your two week grieving period," she told the prone figure lying in the bed matter-of-factly, exactly two weeks after the funeral, true to her words. "Now, it's time to start getting your life back on track."

"I didn't know you were keeping me on a schedule," mumbled James, his face in a pillow.

"Get up. You can't be a miserable prat for the rest of your life," she said sternly.

"Says who?"

"Me – someone who's been through this before. You can't let this take over your life. This is _your_ life. _You're_ in control. So you gotta get up, and take life by the balls." He did not respond, and she sat down next to his head and ran her hands through his hair. "Listen, James…your life is not over."

"Sure feels like it."

"I know, love, I know. But, your life is going on, and it's going on without you. The James Potter I know would never let something like this get him down forever," she said. They were silent for a while before she spoke again, "I'm gonna leave."

June made way for the door. "Think about it."

James knew June was right. Wasn't James Potter supposed to be all about winning? And yet…

He found he didn't want to do what was expected of him. The past few weeks had been fun – why did it have to stop? It was fulfilling – or, at least, it had been fulfilling for the night, and the next day he'd need to get sloshed once again. There was so much anger inside of him that needed to be let out in some way. Wasn't this the way to do it? Channel it into something else?

His mother, he knew, was in no better state. She had retreated to her room after the funeral, and had not been seen since. James thought that Sirius had been bringing her food. Sirius didn't live there anymore, but he still came by every day to check on them. Frankly, James thought it rather annoying.

James reached under him for a bottle of Firewhiskey. He stared at it for a long time, trying to decide whether he wanted to feel better for a while or _get_ better. The former seemed much easier, to him.

Tilting his head back, he took a long sip and looked around his bedroom. Clothing was strewn across furniture, and it smelled like vomit and sweat. His Hogwarts trunk was overturned and emptied, as well as his racing broom, which was hiding under a pair of jeans. To how it had been on the day of the funeral (he had yet to stop wincing at the word), the room was unrecognizable.

Another sip. He tried to get up, but his head pounded too much for movement. He contemplated taking a hangover potion, but it seemed useless when he was already drinking again. Looking at the bedside table, he flinched at the watch given to him on his seventeenth birthday by his father. It hurt physically to see it and he turned away.

He didn't want to admit the real problem. The fact of the matter was, James was afraid. He was afraid of everything from life to death and he hated fear. Fear meant weakness, and James Potter was not _weak_. He was supposed to be the strong one. Every force in the universe needed him to be the supplier of help to all who needed it. He didn't know how to be in the place of a person in need. He was James Potter, after all, and James Potter was supposed to be the picture-perfect hero. People weren't supposed to die around him – he was supposed to _save_ them.

So why had this happened? To him?

He felt as if he had done something wrong along the way, and this was his punishment. Fear. James wanted to scoff at the very mention of fear. Gryffindor, through and through, he was. Life was controlling him and he hated not being in control.

Death was all around him – there was a war on. There had been a war on since he was ten years old and he still hadn't learned the true meaning of war. All he knew now was that wars were meant to be fought by the brave. He was told that good always wins out bad. But he was starting to realize… Fiction was not reality. Stories of heroism are just dreams unable to be attained because no one was fit for the job of flawless hero. He had always thought _he_ was. Then again, everything he believed in kept turning out to be wrong.

He had thought his father was immortal, but he knew now that no one was immortal. No one could cheat death, only fight it. Wars were meant to be fought, yes, but by the brave? James had always thought he was brave, and yet here he was, living in fear. He had been a child before, hiding behind his parents and influence and money (the same things, essentially), that he didn't realize what was really at stake here, in this war. It was not about Muggleborns, it was about power and who had the strength to wield it, against those who had the strength to _share_ it.

But one thing would remain the same, on both sides of the equation. Death.

The now-empty Firewhiskey bottle hit the wall with a mighty smash. Complications were not something he wanted to deal with. He wanted to continue on looking at the world in simplest terms – through rose-tinted glasses. But now there was a smudge on those glasses, and no matter how hard he scrubbed, the smudge would only grow from here.

His eyes were closed and he was vaguely aware of an incessant tapping at his window. He didn't like the way his life was looking at the moment but had no desire to fix it. Fixing it would only make things worse, he thought.

The tapping steadily grew louder, therefore becoming more annoying by the decibel. Through the pillow that he had placed over his ears soon after it entered the realm of unbearableness, he continued to hear it. With a groan, he left his bed for the first time that day. For a moment, he was unsteady and placed a hand on his head in an attempt to sooth the pain.

Eyes sought out the tawny owl just outside the window, which looked equally irritated. He let it in, sighing. The owl nipped his fingers as he relieved it of its letter, and flew away the second it could.

"Bloody owls…" he muttered, frustrated. The letter was one he received every year since the one that arrived when he was eleven. His Hogwarts letter. It was heavier than usual, but he wasn't too curious. His Quidditch Captain badge from last year gave off the same extra weight, and he just supposed he was getting one again.

But when he opened the letter and a golden badge clanged down to the floor, he saw the gleaming "HB" that he'd usually mock people for. The letter fluttered to the ground also, though he did not really notice in the badge's wake.

He knew what the "HB" stood for. Head Boy. He could not be Head Boy. It was, to say the least, an illogical decision. Not completely unprecedented, but completely unfavorable. James Potter could not be Head Boy.

James scrambled for the letter blindly, holding on to a foolish hope that the badge had been given to him by mistake. He found the thickest paper and retrieved it, dreading what might be on it.

And, sure enough:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You have been made Head Boy –_

He didn't see point in reading on. It would just make him feel more nauseated.

Of their own accord, his feet took him into the hallway and across the hall. To his parents' room. Or, his mother's room. He didn't know which hurt more. "Mum…" he said, knocking on the door. There was no response and he decided to just go in.

He guessed his mother was the figure lying under all the bedding. He sat down next to her. "Mum… I got my Hogwarts letter." Still no answer. He wondered how his mother had been reduced to this state. "You might wanna see it…" he said. "I, uh, I made Head Boy."

Sounds came from the covers, and James strained to hear them. "Your…" a cough, "your father was…Head Boy. He… He would be…proud," was all she said, in a terrifyingly brittle voice.

And, suddenly, his new position didn't feel like a stigma anymore.

This was his chance. This was his chance to make sure his father didn't die in vain. His father had been so different from him – so much better than him. But his father had been Head Boy too, and he'd want James to make the most of this. He could see that now. James would _not_ disappoint. He couldn't.


End file.
